Some of the same reporters were there and the one who I always wondered whether he had a big dick was close by, doing that charming teasing thing he likes to do.
I don’t know what I was doing there because I wasn’t with the sales team. But there was some sort of orientation, group tour going on.
He was working for an ESPN radio show that aired on TV. I didn’t know it was him at first and I dont think the face he got in the dream was his real face. He looked like a guy who would do sports radio. He was chubby and tall the way former athletes get. He had a body like an umpire.
I still don’t have a clear sense of purpose of why I’m in this office building, and JD and the possibly-big-dicked reporter are telling me I need to go on air. They are really rooting for me to join the show and become an on air personality, and aside from I loathe my voice on recording and I don’t actually want to be a radio personality I just wasn’t feeling the vibe.
It was nice to be considered, but I hadn’t even applied, it wasn’t my bag, and after a point it was just these two men bullying and haranguing me.
I felt more like they wanted a woman around to attract interest but not to actually add anything.
It felt like if I did ever say anything it’d randomly get shot down bluntly and rudely. And I wasn’t in the mood for that kind of disrespect. In no small part because I’d recently endured it in real life and it was so unappealing and unnecessary. You know when you speak and are abruptly, and harshly dismissed/silenced?
I cant tell whether men who are like this are genuinely afraid of women and all our magic powers and so they act out and punish us to control the dynamic and make themselves feel more manly, or whether it’s not that deep and they’re simply just rude in general to everyone at random times.
I think it’s a combination but I’m leaning toward the former.
So I decline to join the show and all anyone can say is “JD Salinger offered you a job and you turned it down.”
Then I’ve got this guilt, related to my childhood of how there was always some expectation of me because I was supposed to be bright and smart but all I really was was lazy. And maybe it wasn’t guilt so much as regret, because this week I went to a nice party hosted by an intellectual couple and I was so blown away by their collection of books, and the way their minds worked, and how thoughtful and engaged all their conversations were with their friends.
And I was jealous because I wasn’t a real intellectual. Because I hadn’t finished school, because I didn’t have a Masters. And there was another brief pain that I shoved down because I blame all of it on my mother.
Honestly, you cant abuse a kid and expect them to see any point in trying to be better. You teach them early with every beating that it doesn’t ever actually get better. Whether you try or not. But like I said, it’s a brief pain, and you know maybe one day I’ll go for a Masters. (Lol no I wont stop.)
So then I leave “work” and meet up with Jessica and Kiera and we’re driving through the city and this part seems longer but nothing precise is happening or being said, but Keira is increasingly beginning to annoy me. And I remember putting a CD on as the sun is going down but it’s nothing particular but I remember that. We come up on a checkpoint and like a nutjob I blame Keira for us all having to get out of the car so they can look inside and find nothing. And out of nowhere Keira puts on these huge gold door knockers, but the more oval kind.
And I tell her I never liked her and I tell her she wishes she was me (I’m sure she doesn’t, but it was the earrings). And I’m surprised at myself because I usually don’t want to fight anyone for cultural appropriation, and I don’t know so much that Keira wearing door knockers in a dream qualifies, but I do think it hit a nerve in me where people emulate my style or mock me for it but don’t actually respect me, and don’t actually look deeper than my surface decorations.
And it’s so offensive because how can you be so preoccupied with what I look like, how I dress, my makeup and my hair, and not grasp that my appearance is a combination of my experiences and a reflection of who I am inside? And if you aren’t trying or willing to connect with her then fuck off trying to copy me or make jest of how I express her. We are not friends.
Couples come to this tropical place and each partner undergoes intensive sex therapy at these three different stations and all of it is filmed, and the real bonus is that Brad Pitt is the host/narrator.
He doesn’t do any sex with anyone, probably because he’s not a sex therapist. But he is shirtless in island paradise with that god damn Inglorious Basterds haircut that he cursed all of the hipsters with.
I checked out when a guy in a Santa suit got into a bathtub because it was a little too weird for my curious.
Instead of going right in I venture upstairs to the recently vacant apartment. At first it’s the same as ours. The kitchen immediately before the door, the living room to the left. The carpet is red, blood red, bright and lush. There’s a sofa covered over. The living room seems longer than ours and I cant tell if that’s because it’s empty or because it’s actually longer.
I go to the top, to the hallway and its all white. But it’s midday and the light is off so its a dull muted grey but it still gives off this sterility that I don’t mind. I go to the bedroom at the end which I figure is equivalent to mine. Its huge. The closet it just like mine, with the sliding mirrored doors, and the shelving. But there are three of them. And where there aren’t closets there are windows. It’s literally the room of my dreams with all that light and mirrors, and closet space and floor space. The carpet is like 80s lavender. That real soft color that candy gum turns when it’s chewed out. The room is nice and I don’t mind the carpet.
I go on to the next bedroom and it’s probably the same size but I can’t tell for sure because it’s furnished and seems crowded. The bed is huge and high up how I like. The mattress seems firm but gives a good bounce. The dresser and chest of drawers are dark and rich and shiny. This room reminds me of my grandfather’s house, and I leave.
The bathroom is practically a spa. There are about six separate tubs. Also everything is full on barbie pink. The toilet is super new and there’s a bidet.
By now I realize it’s way bigger than mine. I want my landlord to give it to me and let me sub out downstairs. I’m leaving on a mission to call him and convince him, but hes already downstairs when I get there. There’s a new addition to the stair case, some sort of office to the left that apparently used to be his great grandfather’s or something.
My landlord is wearing the face of a British porn star I like (God help me, you know how dream are.) and sitting at a desk and I tell him I want the upstairs apartment and he telLs me it’s $9800 a month but someone like me surely has good credit. And I tell him I don’t. And he says well I know you’re a good person, you wouldn’t lie. And while I don’t know why he’s talking like like the male version of Ursula from Little Mermaid I tell him I have lied before, and I’m a good person sometimes but not the best, and not as good as I want to be. And he tells me that’s all right we all have our things.
He’s not giving me the apartment and he doesn’t need to say it because I can understand from our dialogue. And I’m reminded of a truth I discovered years ago at probably the greatest turning point in my life:
There’s no use in wanting what isn’t yours and belongs to someone else. Because all of what we have comes with its own burdens and joys, and we have what we have when we have it because that’s what we can handle then.
And if I want to live in a super gorgeous dream apartment with plush blood red carpeting then I just need to earn $10,000 a month. Nbd.
Then in real life Hilton is kneading my thighs and I’m all the way up.